


A life worth less

by StealingPennies



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealingPennies/pseuds/StealingPennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some lives are more valuable than others...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A life worth less

_“Does that mean his life’s worthless?”_   
_“No. It means it’s worth less than yours.”_   
_The Poisoned Chalice_   
_Merlin, BBC_

**  
When he first arrived at Camelot Merlin had thought it impossibly large and worried that he would never find his way around. Less than six months later, after three weeks shut inside, the castle enclaves have shrunk to thimble-size and he wonders if he might go mad from captivity. With the upper walls out of bounds even the air in the narrow streets feels stale and used and strangely constricting.

Arthur is feeling similarly trapped and, being Arthur, bearing it a lot less patiently. Weapons practice, hitherto a couple of hours a day, expands to pretty much an all day affair, with the result that Merlin is one large bruise. Gaius has taken to handing him ointment as soon as he stumbles into the room limp from whatever thing Arthur has elected to whack him with most recently.

It comes down to border disputes, whatever those might be. Arthur, when questioned, doesn’t shed much light on the matter. “Some disagreement over land ownership at our boundry with the Eastern Kingdoms. The succession has always been a little…contentious.” He gestures vaguely with his goblet towards some mapping point that is apparently located in the fireplace.

There was a lot more, but basically Merlin gets the impression there is some question about the legitimacy of the title to one of the smaller kingdoms; and on who wins out in the end will depend certain alliances. It’s certainly nothing that a knight could be called upon to help subdue. That much Merlin is sure, since Arthur had all but begged the king to let him join Camelot’s soldiers on patrol.

“This isn’t a war, Arthur,” Uther had replied. “I can’t send my son, the leader of my knights, on what amounts to a territorial spying mission.”

“But—“

“I said no. That’s an end to it.”

Still, it all seems to have been sorted now and the castle gates are open once more. A steady stream of merchants arrive pulling carts piled high with much-needed fresh vegetables from the nearby farms. Villagers are going in and out without hindrance.  
In the circumstances, it’s a surprise that Arthur’s request to take a party of friends out hunting is refused. Perhaps, thinks Merlin, it’s sheer force of habit for Uther to refuse his son’s requests as some sort of character-building exercise. He certainly does it often enough:

“No, Arthur, you may not.”  
“No, Arthur, I forbid you.”  
“No, Arthur, that is not a good idea.”

Or, as in this particular instance:

“No, Arthur, you may not ride out and hunt.”

Merlin wonders if the king can’t see it or simply doesn’t care that he speaks to his heir in a series of negative pronouncements. Arthur does not argue but his face assumes a mulish look as he sketches a bow and all but storms out of the throne room. Merlin follows quickly knowing from the prince’s expression that it can only mean trouble.

Uther really has no idea how to handle his son. The only way to make Arthur circumvent a ruling faster would be for the king to heave him up on his horse and push him out of the doors of Camelot himself.

On this occasion that task falls to Merlin. At least, there is very little heaving involved since, Uther having specified no riding, Arthur elects to walk. And most of the pushing is being done by the prince’s friends to each other as they set off laughing and joking. Hunting for game being off the agenda Arthur has decreed they will head over to the marshes and fish for eels.

Watching the prince as he strides ahead, arm slung casually around Lord Eldred’s shoulder, Merlin feels some sympathy. A small border dispute, some random scuffles, and they’ve been trapped inside the castle for the better part of a month. During this time spring has taken a grip and the often mud-turned road is smooth and dry, the verges spilling over with grasses in various shades of green and wild flowers.

Merlin settles into an easy pace and wonders when Uther will discover his son’s absence and what form the king’s punishment will take. He brings up the rear of the group; partly because he is a servant and loaded down with empty eel baskets, but mainly because Arthur’s friends manage to be loud and stupid and very, very obnoxious. Eldred is a prat. Berthold is a prat. Jerhua is a prat. Cedroc is a prat. Brandon is a prat.

Brandon is a new addition to the prince’s social circle of noble pra-lords. A fosterling sent to learn the ways of Camelot, his first action has been to transform himself into an Arthur copy with all the faults and none of the redeeming self-awareness of the original.  
Today Brandon has graced the occasion with a sweeping new cloak very like Arthur’s own. Light glints off his newly-shortened blond hair with its artfully tousled fringe. He doesn’t have the prince’s grace, but as he makes his way through the great hall, a number of the serving girls and a few of the men turn to look admiringly.

By his side Arthur gives an irritated sniff. “Tosser.”

“You don’t think he looks attractive?” Merlin enquires innocently, “Such noble bearing? 

All that seductive golden hair?”

This elicits a snort of laughter. “All that and the face of an angel.” It’s a compliment Merlin has often heard applied to the prince. He usually adds an unspoken ‘fallen’ when he hears it.

“Charming too,” adds Arthur, warming to the recitation of his virtues.

Merlin nods agreeably. “And so very modest.”

“Modesty is over-rated,” replies the prince, seriously. “There’s no arrogance in knowing your talents.” His mood switches suddenly, bright blue eyes holding Merlin’s own. “You think that colour’s attractive? I don’t. I like dark hair.” He adds abruptly, “And someone with a mind of their own.”

Merlin instantly pictures Morgana and wonders if he is meant to comment, but before he can frame the words the prince has wandered off and is greeting the new arrivals.

The marshes are some miles distant but it is an easy hike and takes a little under two hours, Merlin daydreams as he walks, working through the pages Gaius’s of spellbook in his mind. No one speaks to him and he is interrupted only by the occasional clump of the eel baskets as they hit his legs over the uneven ground. He considers using magic to make the baskets behave but decides it’s too risky and resigns himself to bruised shins. The bruises will blend in and he comforts himself with the thought that at least Arthur will not be demanding sword practice today.

The sounds change as they pass out of the protection of the castle and its surrounding villages. The lowing of cattle and cackling of hens being gradually replaced by the more subtle rustle of fox and deer and the occasional thrumming run of wild boar. There would have been good hunting today. The land is alert, watching them, and the water in the marshes when they reach them lies still and dark. Merlin would call it magical but it’s the deep, old magic of the earth rather than that of wizards. He feels sudden pity for the dragon trapped forever in the caverns deep beneath Camelot.

Eel fishing is barely fishing at all. They throw the baskets to the centre of the pools where they quickly sink and settle down to enjoy the day.

Arthur is having a very good time. If you knew him well, and Merlin is coming to read the prince very well, it might seem slightly forced, but there is plenty of laughter and ribald joking. And not much of anything else.

One day Merlin is going to write a treatise on the prattishness of his prince and master and a large section of this major work is going to be devoted to Arthur’s ability to change according the company he is keeping. This particular Arthur bears a remarkable resemblance to the insufferable individual Merlin met on his first day at Camelot. The one he wanted badly to throw face down into the nearest stinking midden.

The conversation moves to talk of fighting skills. Arthur gets his dagger out and throws it towards a nearby tree. A knot splits neatly off from the main trunk and falls spinning to the ground. There is applause which the prince politely acknowledges. Show off, thinks Merlin, but he admits that Arthur has the skills to show off. When it comes to Eldred the knife misses the target altogether and lands with a plop into the water.

“Merlin!” calls Arthur. But Merlin is already on his feet, knowing what is coming next. He takes a deep breath and wades into the marsh. It’s not deep, but it is both cold and muddy and Merlin struggles to keep his feet. Arthur and his friends are laughing at him. How’s it feel to make a splash? That’s the bath for another year, eh!

One day…and it will be a bloody big midden, Merlin promises himself as he gropes around in the muddy marsh floor in search of the dagger.

After a minute or two his fingers close upon the hilt and he rises to a chorus of catcalls water cascading off him in a rush. He flings the knife in the general direction of the noblemen. Merlin may be just a servant but it’s a better throw than Eldred’s. For a brief moment he considers lifting up the entire party and dropping them in the middle of the marsh. He restrains himself with difficulty and only because Arthur has clambered to the edge of the water and is reaching to pull Merlin back to solid ground. Their fingers join, wet and dry, and it is – naturally - entirely accidental that the movement ends up with Arthur joining his servant in the water. He rises untidily, red shirt soaking, drips spattering his hair and face.

Merlin sniggers. It sounds even louder since everyone else has silenced. Arthur is wearing his ‘I am a ruthless killing machine and you are next on my hit list’ expression which is pretty awesome even half hidden by a helmet but truly terrifying close up. It’s a pity the effectiveness is marred by the addition of a strand of weed tangled in the v of his shirt.

“Do you realise what I’m going to do to you when we get back?” he asks furiously, batting away the offending vegetation.

“I can only imagine,” murmurs Merlin. He staggers a little as Arthur uses him as a standing block to gain his balance.

For a moment they eye each other and Merlin wonders if Arthur is actually going to strike him and what the punishment is for thumping a prince. Whatever it is, it will probably be worth it. A drop of water rolls from his hair into his eye, Merlin blinks and the moment passes.

“Stocks? Prison? Stables? You pick,” offers Arthur but the rage is gone and he speaks low enough that only his servant can hear.

“Anything, you choose. But not, please not, the feather hat,” begs Merlin, responding the shift in mood. He smiles although the hat is really not a joking matter.

Arthur grins briefly at the memory. “Hat it is then. Remind me to look it out when we get home.” They trade a glance, then Arthur reaches out almost casually and jabs him on the shoulder. Hard. Merlin promptly falls backwards with a resounding splash.

It’s now that the riders appear.

They must have used magic. Ten horsmen cannot approach without sound. And yet, here they are, surrounded by riders with drawn swords. They wear mail and carry shields bearing the insignia of a running wolf crossed by a bar sinister.

The leader is obvious by his size and bearing. He has long russet-brown hair and wears a short beard through which gleam strands of fiery red. His horse is red too, a great chestnut stallion. A slight movement of knee and the rider moves forward to the five nobles who have instinctively drawn together. “Who would have thought such a catch would be so easy to find? He rests his gaze on Brandon and uses the point of his to lift a strand of blond hair.

“Arthur Pendragon?”

Brandon’s mouth forms a ‘no’ but no sound comes out. Around them the ring of horses draws a little closer.

“I am he.” Arthur’s voice rings out clear. His clothes are soaked and sticking to his skin but he bears himself as if dressed in the finest court velvets. “Who wishes to know?”

The bearded man turns toward the voice, takes in the prince’s bedraggled appearance and laughs. He shifts his attention away from Brandon, who sags visibly in relief, and motions his horse towards Arthur. “Aye, they said you were pretty and proud. Uther’s boy, are you?”

Arthur does not deign to respond although his cheeks stain with colour showing that the words have hit their mark. By now Merlin has inched unobtrusively to the edge of the marsh. This is the one side the riders have not managed to cover but it does not seem to offer much in the way of an escape route. He tries to think of a magical solution but beyond retrieving Arthur’s dagger from the tree he can’t come up with any ideas that would deal with so many people at once.

“Speak then.”

“It is polite to answer a question before setting one.” It can’t be easy to give the impression of looking down on an opponent who has the advantage of being mounted but Arthur manages somehow.

“Indeed? Well, Arthur Pendragon, I am Ranwulf of the Eastern Kingdom and I am here to deliver a warning.”

“Speak then and then leave. This land belongs to Camelot.” Arthur could be Uther in one of his more unapproachable moods. It’s a bravura performance although Merlin wishes that he was a bit more conciliatory. At least until he, Merlin, has worked out how exactly they are going to beat ten men on horseback armed with swords and shields. He suspects the rest of party may actually be more of a hindrance than a help.

“Yet Camelot has been concerning itself with the East,” remarks Ranwulf softly. “You should know that blood will call to blood whether you like the line or not. Uther should remember his own dynesty is by no means certain.”

“If you kill me it will be a war not a warning.” Arthur manages to sound bored.

Ranwulf repositions his horse slightly and leans over so that his face is almost touching that of the prince. His voice is soft, “That, my prince, is why I am not going to kill you.” Despite the words he raises his sword and pricks it at Arthur’s neck. The blade is sharp and a bright line of crimson marks its passage blending into the water soaked fabric.

Merlin feels sick. He knows something horrible is going to happen but it’s like seeing a play where the script is already written and all he can do is stand by and watch as the drama unfolds. What use is magic when you can't control it? 

A horse stirs restlessly. That’s it! The eels. Merlin imagines them curling out of their baskets and towards the horses hooves. A little more thought. They’ve moving now…just another few seconds.

A snapped finger, and there is a muted thump and a groan. Brandon is on the ground screaming. Blood gushes from the wound in his belly. The throat-cloying waft of the charnel houses curls out into the air.

“A present,” breathes Ranwulf still leaning over Arthur.

“You bastard!” The reaction is instant but ultimately futile. Arthur reaches out to grab Ranwulf but is forced to duck back as his target slashes out with his sword. The rider guides his stallion one handed until he is far enough out of reach to turn. He throws a final comment over his shoulder. “And a warning!”

At Ranwulf’s retreat the nine horsemen turn in a synchonised movement and gallop away. The whole incident has taken less than five minutes.

Arthur runs a few strides after them but stops almost at once as it becomes obvious there is no chance of catching up and no clue as to the direction taken by their attackers.

Brandon’s screams are reduced to mere frothy bubbles. Arthur kneels over his friend talking and asking questions in an even voice that bears no relation to the set of his face, He gets no reply. It’s obvious the wound is mortal. Eldred’s dagger is at hand but when the prince makes to pick it up, Merlin shakes his head. Merlin has seen death before with Gaius and it is clearly imminent. At least this is quick and he is able to use a silent recitation spell to diminish the pain. Then it’s over. Merlin uses his thumbs to close the sightless blue eyes then covers the still face with his cloak. He is preparing to lift up the body when Arthur stops him.

“Give him to me.”

The hand on his shoulder grips painfully deep but Merlin hardly notices because of distraught glitter in the prince’s eyes. “You don’t have to,” he begins.

“Yes,” replies Arthur, softly. “Yes, I do.”

The air whispers through the grass and a bird calls and is answered. With barely a ripple the eels rise from the water and slide unnoticed across the grass too late to play their part. Smooth trails mark where they have slithered through the spills of blood.

Without speaking the group fall into file and make their way back the castle. Arthur leads, Brandon a dead weight across his shoulder, swaying stiffly as the prince picks his way over the grass and turrocks towards the main road that will lead them to Camalot.

It is a trip of perhaps eight miles and accomplished mainly in silence. Arthur stays in front followed closely by Merlin. The rest follow somehow but Merlin doesn’t turn back. His attention is focussed entirely on Arthur. The prince moves quickly despite his burden but even so the torches are lit on the roads approaching to the castle by the time they return home.

As they reach the shadow of the castle Merlin pulls at Arthur to bring him to a halt.  
“What?” 

It's phrased as a question but the tone makes it obvious that Arthur really doesn't care what 'what' might be. For a moment Merlin hesitates, not sure how to phrase what he wants to say. “Let me,” he says finally, echoing his words from before. “You’re home now. You don’t have to do this any more.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You really don’t understand, do you? Brandon is dead because of me. What kind of knight lets himself be surrounded like that? I failed us all.”

Merlin is left with nothing to say. It’s a worst possible interpretation of events but it is an interpretation and this is not the time to argue. “I’ll take him now,” he repeats turning the request into a statement. “It's your duty to see the king.”

Apparently this makes sense and the prince makes no attempt to stop Merlin hoisting the body onto his own shoulder. It feels stiff, like a package, no longer human.

The rest of the party has caught up with them and hanging back waiting not wanting to arrive at the castle first. Arthur looks at their faces and rallies himself. “Be strong, friends. You are home safe and no blame will attach to you for this day. I give you my word.”

Merlin’s pretty sure that if Uther wants to blame someone than Arthur won’t be able to stop him. On the other hand, the person Uther is going to want to blame is most likely Arthur. In any case, there’s no point hanging around. Merlin sets off in the direction of the great gates. He moves quickly and thus arrives first.

Barely has he set foot into great hall when the king is there. Evidently he has been waiting on their return. His footsteps sound across the stone floor, each stride echoing angrily. Then he catches sight of Merlin and falters.

“Arthur,” Uther’s voice is almost unrecognisable. He strides to where Merlin stands clasping Brandon’s body which is mainly covered by his cloak except for a few pale strands of hair. Merlin has always known he can sense feelings but he almost physically recoils from the wall of emotion coming from the king. Uther goes white, but the hand that reaches out does not tremble. Quietly now, he repeats his son’s name.

The moment stills, stretches, breaks.

 

Arthur steps out of the shadows. “Father.”

Uther whirls at the sound of his son’s voice. For a moment his eyes devour the prince then his expression hardens. He is silent a moment as though he does not trust himself to speak. When he does, his voice is controlled. “Doubtless there is some explanation?”

“Yes- I”

Good. I will hear it in my throne room. Immediately.”

“Sire,” Uther turns around, and son or not, Arthur steps back a little at the fury in his father’s face. No one, but no one, questions the king’s orders. He recovers and meets the king’s eyes. “There’s been an..an incident and a man has been killed. I have a duty to discharge first. Brandon…he has, he has a family. They should be told first.”

“Fosterlings have no family at Camelot.” Uther waves this away.

“There is a girl and a child.”

“A strumpet?” The king’s brows raise incredulously. “You make me wait on the demands of a strumpet?”

“It’s true they are not married but I believe she may consider herself a wife.”

“And this is more important than your king?”

Arthur is pale but stands his ground. “My king has taught me that I owe allegiance to my men. I think he would want me to repay their loyalty.”

“We are not talking about a knight.”

“Even so, one should not hear of the death of a loved one second-hand.”

Uther’s eyes narrow, remembering belatedly that they are not alone. Merlin can see that he is weighing up forcing Arthur to do his bidding with the need to retain dignity in front of his subjects. Eventually he nods his head. “Go then, but find me immediately after.”

Intent on Uther and Arthur, Merlin is barely aware of Gaius and a pair of porters lifting Brandon’s body from his hold and placing it on a pallet ready for taking to the house of the dead. Gaius wraps a guiding hand around his upper arm but Merlin pulls away.

“Arthur!”

“What do you think you can do?” asks Gaius reasonably. “Come back with me and we’ll think things through sensibly. I take it this was magic?”

Merlin responds more or less in order. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I can’t come now, Gaius.”

Truth to tell, there isn’t much he can do other than track the prince’s footsteps, and be there. News flies through the city and even as Arthur approaches Brandon’s quarters the neighbours are starting to gather, knotted in groups around the well. The prince ignores them and enters through a worn-looking door. Merlin remains outside and imagines the conversation within and knows there’s no way what needs to be said can be said easily.

He doesn’t have to wait long. A collective hush tells him when the door opens and a soft wailing can be heard within. It is a child’s cry. The prince closes the door carefully behind him and turns to retrace his steps to the courtrooms.

Merlin doesn’t bother alerting Arthur to his presence. Indeed it seems that Arthur is walking blind as Merlin surreptitiously clears of his path of obstacles. The prince’s steps drag slightly as he approaches the throne room. The day is beginning to tell. The door is open so Merlin follows and takes a seat by the wall.

“You were successful in your errand?”

Arthur flinches somewhat at the word success but he nods. “Father, I need to tell you --”

“I already know about Ranwulf. Arthur, how could you let yourself be taken so unawares?”

“I don’t know. It’s as if they came by magic.”

“Do not talk to me of magic! The stupidity of going out unarmed when the kingdoms are still fighting.”

“It was meant to be settled.” Arthur flashes. “You said it had been settled.”

Uther responds in equal heat. “And then it was unsettled.”

“You should have told me.”

“Is that some sort of excuse?”

The reply is tired. “No, Sire. I know that my failure is inexcusable.” 

“Do you have anything else to say?” Uther sounds very cold.

“I’m sorry.”

Uther sighs. He considers his son. “Go to your rooms, Arthur, we’ll talk in the morning.”

As Arthur leaves Uther adds, almost as an afterthought. “See you get something to eat.”

Once in his rooms Arthur pours a goblet of wine and takes it to the table where it stays unnoticed as he leans with elbows against the wood, head bowed in his hands. It’s the kind of introspection can’t be jollied away and Merlin doesn’t even try. He moves around the room quietly putting things in order. Then, as Arthur still hasn’t moved, he calls out for food and a bath as if this was a normal evening.

A procession of servants arrive bearing platters of meat, a tub and steaming flagons of water. Arthur rouses at the sounds. “I didn’t order these.”

“No, I did,” says Merlin. “You should eat.”

“Oh. Well, that’s OK, then. You can go now.”

“I know.” Merlin perches lightly on the edge of the table. He tries to look relaxed but if the table moved he’d still be standing. “I should stay and clear up. When you’ve finished, that is.”

Arthur glances across at him. “That was actually an order.”

The look more than the words persuade Merlin. He’s making for the door when Uther enters. It’s a little awkward since Merlin can’t quite envisage himself ‘excuse me-ing’ to the king. But clearly this is a private meeting. He settles for edging back into the sleeping quarters. There’s a curtain which comes down for privacy but he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself with the noise and fuss of releasing it from its ties. He feels the edge of the bed against the back of his knees and sits down to wait feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur.

Uther is speaking. He sounds less… kingly than Merlin has ever heard him. “I thought you would like to know I’ve arranged for compensation to be sent to Lord Brandon’s family. The matter stops here.”

Arthur stands facing his father, mirroring his stance. Seen like this they seem very similar and yet worlds apart. He hesitates. “His… lady?”

“His official family.”

“It’s his unofficial family who are likely to starve.” Arthur points out.

Uther keeps his conciliatory tone but there’s an edge to it now. “I cannot condone immoral alliances.”

“But isn’t that what this is all about? The whole of the east in dispute because other kingships could not tolerate a throne going to an illegimate son even though he is the named heir?”

“Enough!” Uther puts up a hand, clearly out of patience. “People die, Arthur, sometimes for nothing. You’ve lost a friend today and I make allowance for that. Learn from it.”

The prince passes a hand over his cheek, the fight gone out of him. “That’s the worst of it. He wasn’t even a friend.”

They’ve moved somewhat as they’ve been talking, edging around each other, standing close but never touching. At this, Uther gives a sudden choking sound and gathers his son to him, smoothing back the ruffled hair and pressing a kiss to his brow. He lets go almost immediately. “If you had died,” he says and his voice is thickened. “If you had died… No two stones in the east would be left standing.”

Arthur’s face softens. “I know.”

***

Merlin is dreaming about sleeping in the clouds. Deep fluffy clouds…He didn’t mean to go to sleep but he was so tired and it was so comfortable. He’s still half asleep when a muted crashing around wakes him. Arthur is gathering various items of clothing cursing softly as he is having to locate and guess what they are in the dark. Merlin pretends to be asleep at any moment expecting to be tipped out of bed with instructions to boil all the bedding for a very long time and not to forget to add himself to the mix when it gets good and hot.

What actually happens is that the Prince dresses quietly and leaves his quarters. As the door shuts, Merlin bounces up. A quick and magical flash of light is enough to show what the prince has dressed for combat. He gathers up the rest of the armour; the things it is impossible for Arthur to put on for himself. If Arthur has gone out to do something stupid – and it’s fairly obvious to Merlin that he has – he might as well be properly dressed.

Merlin catches up with Arthur at the stables. It’s early so only a few servants are around but a sleepy ostler saddles up the prince’s horse.

“Here,” says Merlin, as if this were an everyday occurance. “You forgot these.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” insists Merlin beginning to fasten on the heavy shoulder guard. The prince, he notes, has washed his face but from the neck down is still grimy from the day before.

“Satisfied?” asks Arthur when the job is done. His favours Merlin with a haughtly glance, indicating that he’d bloody well better be satisfied.

“Do you practice that look in the mirror?” flashes Merlin, too concerned to be tactful.  
“I’ll need a horse since I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

Arthur audibly breathes out through his teeth. “Look,” he says using one hand to point first to himself and then Merlin. “Master. Servant. Do you understand the concept? It means I give the orders and you obey them.”

In sarcasm terms it’s half-hearted, either because Arthur is pre-occupied with whatever stupid knight-thing he is planning to do or because he really would like some company. 

Merlin presses his advantage. “I won’t get in your way. I’ll just look after the horses.”

It’s somewhat comforting that the look Arthur gives him is downright spiteful. “Alright but I’m not going slow down for you and if all your muscles seize then it’s your own fault.”

Merlin nods, of course.

“And don’t do anything stupid and get yourself killed.”

“Backatcha!” thinks Merlin. But he doesn’t say this aloud.

There’s not much point asking Arthur for plans. Merlin has guessed them anyway. They turn their horses east. Camelot has good stables and their mounts make nothing of the miles. Arthur seems to know where he is going barely hesitating at the turn or fork of the road.

He halts eventually at a large rundown manor. At first Merlin cannot believe that this is the homestead of King Ranwulf. It’s barely more than a farmhouse. His face must betray his disbelief because Arthur throws a brief explanation at him. “Illigitmate son. The actual castle’s a bit better but nothing like Camelot.”

An old man crosses the yard bearing the tools of the blacksmith. Arthur rides over and a brief conversation ensures. The prince motions Merlin to follow and they ride on.

A little over a mile later the sound of mens’ voices confirms they have found their target.

“You stop here.” Arthur orders Merlin . “Look after the horses.”

“What are you going to do?”

Arthur looks at him as if it should be obvious. “Challenge him to single combat.”

“And he’s going to accept that?” Merlin’s voice registers his disbelief.

The response is somewhat pitying. “Of course, it would dishonour him to refuse.”

He sets off and Merlin forces himself to count to 100 before following. He seems to be doing a lot of following Arthur around lately. He won’t use magic. No. Well, only a little magic. Only enough to ensure that Arthur arrives at his intended target unspotted. And the prince could probably have done that anyway so it wasn’t cheating or dishonourable or anything like that. 

Merlin gets a little distracted over the whole tracking thing so Arthur has actually made it to the centre of Ranwulf’s camp and is issuing his challenge before he’s made it to a convenient watching place alongside a slim silver birch.

Sounds carry clearly or he’s somehow turned the volume up or something but he finds he’s able to hear the conversation clearly.

“…single armed combat,” finishes Arthur.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and wishes Uther had concentrated less on the whole honour and duty thing in his lessons to his son. He expects Ranwulf to laugh in the prince’s face. He does, but he also accepts the challenge.

“We are ten to one,” he points out. “Aren’t you afraid to be slain should you lose?”

“I won’t lose,” says Arthur.

A charged silence and then Ranwulf nods signalling his men to fall back. “Single combat. Should I die the Pendragon is to be free to go on his way. You trust the word of a bastard?”

Arthur gives a small smile. “I trust the word of the king’s chosen heir.”

They’re sparring now testing each other talking in sharp little bursts between blows. “I like you, Arthur Pendragon. I was right not to kill you. Before.”

“You’re not going to kill me now.”

“We could be allies. Friends.”

“You murdered an unarmed man. We will never, ever be friends.”

“And your father has never killed in such a way?”

“I am not my father.”

They stop talking now, concentrating entirely on the fight. In an odd way it reminds Merlin of one of the tournaments at Camelot. The fire is kicked out and flattened and the spectators have fallen back forming a natural fighting ring.

Now the sword work is in earnest and it becomes nothing like the show bouts Merlin is used to because the intent is clearly to wound and not disarm. Gone are the pretty moves replaced a by grunting and inelegant scrambling. He can feel Arthur’s concentration, knows the moment when it slips slightly as the prince momentarily loses his footing and Ranwulf raises his sword –-

_Merlin clenches his hands so hard he feels the tree give under his fingers. He makes a split second decision._

_This is not going to happen. Merlin is simply going to flatten the camp with magic. He has no idea how, only that it is going to be very quick and it is going to be completely devastating, because he will not have time to waste before going to find Arthur in whatever location of dead the prince has pitched up in and retrieving him, pronto. That’s probably going to be the easiest part of the deal because, you know, Arthur and first impressions. Whoever has him will probably be glad to hand him back with no questions asked._

_Whatever happens, there is no way that Merlin going to return to Camelot with Arthur slung over his shoulder. He will go so far as to lend Arthur a hand should the return from death scenario have come to pass but that’s as far as he’s willing to compromise._  


_So that’s the plan and Merlin breathes in deep, reaching for the power balling at his fingertips as the tree starts to smoke under his touch._

\--and drops it as Arthur twists and turns and somehow reverses their positions so that it is Ranwulf who is disarmed and facing the point of a blade.

It takes a second for Merlin’s brain to catch up with his eyes. His chest is heaving as though he has been running and there is sweat rolling down his face. Also, he seems to have set the tree on fire and has to hurriedly put it out before the flames catch.

Arthur still has Ranwulf at sword point but is gesturing him to rise. “Your ring.” His opponant slowly pulls off the heavy stone gracing his middle finger. He throws it at the prince who catches it left-handed. “Tell me, would a bastard such as you rule wisely?”

Ranwulf shrugs. “Ambitious Pendragon? Adulwulf certainly thought so, better than his other kin. Kill me and the border lands descend into chaos.” He grins, “But be sure my blood will be avenged. Finish it now!”

Arthur nods slightly and seems to make a decision. His sword whirls up and arcs down in a controlled sweep. When the move is completed Ranwulf is still standing but his right arm is severed below the elbow. He staggers but remains standing clutching the stump with his left hand. Merlin feels a tug of unwilling respect.

“Cuaterise it and bind it,” orders Arthur to one of the watchers. It’s rough and ready treatment and when it’s done there’s a sickening stench of blood and burnt flesh. Gaius would not be impressed, thinks Merlin. Arthur keeps his sword at Ranwulf’s throat while it is done. When the wound is dressed and the Eastern king’s horse has been brought up Arthur speaks again. His voice carries across the clearing. “Go now. Hold your kingdom if you still can. Camelot seeks not advancement within your borders.”

Hatred and respect war on Ranwulf’s face. “Aye, I can still fight one-handed. You spare my life but do not expect me to be grateful. We will meet again and it will not be as friends.” He presses his feet into the sides of the great horse and it turns and canters off followed by his men.

Arthur watches in silence until the sound of hooves fades. Then, without turning around, he calls. “You can come out now, Merlin. I know you’re there.”

There’s not much point in pretence so Merlin leaves the shelter of his tree. He looks closely at the prince but he seems fine. Merlin feels the tension drain. “Why didn’t you kill him?”

“I—is that what you think of me?”

Before he can reply Arthur continues. “I could kill him and his kin would come back for revenge and then Camelot would march on the east and match blood for blood and so it would carry on.” Using the toe of his boot he draws a line in the sandy soil. “So Ranwulf lives and it stops here. Who knows, perhaps he will even be a good king.”

He looks down at the ring in his palm. “One more thing. Here!” He throws the ring into Merlin’s hand. “This will fetch a good price.”

Merlin nods needing no further explanation. “I’ll see she gets the money.”

Arthur hesitates then slides off the heavy silver band from his forefinger and throws that to Merlin as well. “This one too.” Merlin tucks them in his shirt. The metal lies heavy and warm against his skin.

They collect the horses who have stayed put as befits well-trained, and suitable magic-ed –beasts. . Arthur mounts with ease. Merlin with considerable difficulty.

“Sore?” The prince glances across at who’s Merlin wincing in the saddle. “Serves you right. Gaius will have some stuff for it but no sloping off until you’re remade my bed. I think some insolent servant-type has been sleeping there—in his boots!”

They ride slowly back.

“Oh, and Merlin,” Arthur slants him a wicked look. “I have not forgotten the hat.”

One day Merlin will write a treatise on the prattishness of his prince and master. One day, but not yet.


End file.
